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adds Mr. Snagsby with his apologetic cough, ‘that I mean to
say a word against the profession I get my living by.’
Mr. Weevle again glances up and down the court and
then looks at the stationer. Mr. Snagsby, blankly catching
his eye, looks upward for a star or so and coughs a cough
expressive of not exactly seeing his way out of this conver-
sation.
‘It’s a curious fact, sir,’ he observes, slowly rubbing his
hands, ‘that he should have been—‘
‘Who’s he?’ interrupts Mr. Weevle.
‘The deceased, you know,’ says Mr. Snagsby, twitching
his head and right eyebrow towards the staircase and tap-
ping his acquaintance on the button.
‘Ah, to be sure!’ returns the other as if he were not over-
fond of the subject. ‘I thought we had done with him.’
‘I was only going to say it’s a curious fact, sir, that he
should have come and lived here, and been one of my writ-
ers, and then that you should come and live here, and be one
of my writers too. Which there is nothing derogatory, but
far from it in the appellation,’ says Mr. Snagsby, breaking off
with a mistrust that he may have unpolitely asserted a kind
of proprietorship in Mr. Weevle, ‘because I have known
writers that have gone into brewers’ houses and done real-
ly very respectable indeed. Eminently respectable, sir,’ adds
Mr. Snagsby with a misgiving that he has not improved the
matter.
‘It’s a curious coincidence, as you say,’ answers Weevle,
once more glancing up and down the court.
‘Seems a fate in it, don’t there?’ suggests the stationer.

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